That Scent Must Sustain
by ChosenOfAshurha
Summary: Sherlock cannot get enough of the scent of John; he relishes it, drinking it in. It consumes him. (This story is inspired by Patrick Süskind's 'Perfume: A Story of a Murderer')
1. My brain is haunted

Sherlock was thinking. That was how he spent most of his time, to be sure, but this mental study had engaged him for several days. He hadn't eaten, he hadn't slept, he simply reclined on the couch, eyes open, fingers steepled against the bow of his lips, and thought. John was worried; he was always worrying over Sherlock, but this was new- it was a little scary. His eyes were gleaming in the yellow light of the lamps, vacant and foreign to the doctor, but if he looked into them they seemed to pierce into his very soul.

After the fourth day, John could take no more. He knelt beside Sherlock and took his pulse. Strong, but slow. Measured. He breathed deeply, slowly… it was like a trance. John sighed, his breath stirring the detective's curly brown locks.

"Sherlock, you need to stop this. You need to come back now, alright? We have cases, you need food, you need a shower… and I… dammit, Sherlock, I MISS you."

He moved to brush a stray curl from Sherlock's brow when a slender white hand locked around his wrist. Sherlock pulled him close and inhaled deeply. He drank in John's scent- tea and jam and cotton and sweat and iron and something purely _John_. He flicked his blue eyes over John's lined face intently, as if studying the man.

John gulped and tried to pull away.

"I love the way you smell, John. I'd bottle it if I could, keeping it near me forever. I'd never be without you."

The doctor flushed to the tips of his ears. Sherlock's eyes had found his, and they stayed there. Blue on hazel, and sparks flew. John averted his gaze first, but he could feel Sherlock's lingering on him. He cleared his throat and attempted to pull back. Sherlock's grip loosened, and John practically crawled away.

"Y-yes, well, thank- thank you, Sherlock. It's good to have you back among the living."

He tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He knew Sherlock noticed. Embarrassment flooded him beneath his partner's scrutiny. He gathered himself and rose, turning his back to the prone detective on the sofa.

"John."

Deep, almost a growl, rumbling through John's chest as it filled the apartment. Sherlock had a voice like black silk, and he knew how to use it. It was said calmly, but it was an imperative statement. It was a command. John stopped in his tracks and turned back to Sherlock, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. His entire mouth had gone dry.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I missed you too."

John snorted.

"Heard that, did you? I didn't think reality could reach you in your mental catalogue."

"It can't. I came back when you paused."

John's features soften, and he walked back to Sherlock with a sigh.

"What were you thinking about? Some of the cases? New leads, assessing evidence, planning ways to kill Anderson?"

Sherlock turned his face toward John. He studied him, again, and John felt himself break out in gooseflesh. They sat in silence for what seemed like ages, staring intently at one another, until Sherlock finally spoke.

"You."


	2. I'll have this desire

Four days. He had sat in silence for four days thinking of John. His John? He wished. He could be. His pupils dilated in Sherlock's presence, his heart rate increased just enough to be visual, but still he held back. This was what occupied Sherlock's mind as he lay still on the sofa, withdrawn inside his mind. John Hamish Watson, thirty-seven years of age, single, and utterly refusing to acknowledge his own emotional signs.

It was no matter, he would come around. Sherlock knew it. After days of going over the signs, he knew it would be up to him to make the effort. Bothersome, but it needed to be done. He had vague ideas that could potentially be called a plan, but he had not fully sculpted them into a concrete course of action. He had been close when John leaned over him. His scent filled Sherlock's mind, sending his carefully gathered thoughts racing through his mental palace. He had to abandon the plan, at least until John was farther away. He couldn't focus when he was near. The special blend of aromas that comprised John Hamish Watson were distracting, nearly an aphrodisiac. 'I wish I could bottle that', Sherlock thought offhandedly.

His eyes lit up.

Maybe he could.

He turned to assess John's reaction with eager interest. The doctor's mouth was ajar, his pupils dilated and his head slightly tilted. He was confused, but the dilation- yes, yes, he still felt the same.

"Four days. You mean to tell me you spent four days in one of your mind-trances thinking of- of me? Why?"

Sherlock rose on his side, his hair falling down his brow as he stared holes into John.

"Sit, John. Sit with me and I'll tell you."

John sat beside the couch, turning his eyes up to Sherlock's. Without hesitation the detective placed a hand in his hair, running his elegant fingers through the dishwater strands. He felt John tremble beneath him, his breath releasing in ragged strips. It was a perfect response.

"I need you, John. I need you to touch me, to never let me go. I want you to cover every inch of me, to protect me, to work by my side. I want your blood and skin and teeth, your eyes and liver, I want all of you with me forever. I can see your pulse increase when your eyes chance upon me, the way your pupils widen when we lock gazes. I've noticed how you've started using my shower instead of the one upstairs, how you've stopped complaining about my experiments, how you've even stopped correcting Angelo. I think you're the only person who doesn't notice it- but then again, maybe you do."

He arched his eyebrow inquisitively. John stared at him, obviously deep in thought. He had closed his mouth (unfortunately cutting off the pleasant scent of ginger tea lingering on his palate), but his head was still tilted just so slightly to the side. His flush had deepened.

"Sherlock…"

"If I've made you uncomfortable, John, that was not my intention. You did, after all, ask me to-"

"Kiss me."

Sherlock drew back slightly. He hadn't been expecting that sort of response; as usual, John was full of surprises. This was his chance, his perfect invitation, and he would not miss it.

He leaned down, pressing his lips against John's. He was gentle, cautious even, for fear of scaring the fairly reserved doctor away. He didn't anticipate his blogger's eagerness, however. John parted his lips aggressively, pushing Sherlock back against the sofa as he wrapped his arms around him, running his strong hands over every inch of Sherlock's blue robe. They were a tangle of lips and limbs, pressed deeply into the couch as they licked and bit and caressed every inch of each other.

"John," Sherlock whispered, breaking their connection as he caught his breath, "I need you."

John replied with a growl as he sought the detective's soft lips once more, his whole body vibrating with the sound. He stepped back, pulling Sherlock with him, and scooped him up in his strong arms. Without hesitation he moved them to the bedroom, where he lay Sherlock down gently atop the comforter. John knelt above him, staring, before working up the nerve to undress him.

Sherlock never let his gaze deviate from John's face. He wanted to watch, to document every minute of it. He wanted to replay everything in his mind; the sounds, the tastes, and especially the scents.


	3. I need every day

Beneath him, Sherlock was breathing slowly. The rise and fall of his chest was hypnotizing; John almost lost himself in the rhythm. He shook his head and focused, letting his hands brush the silk robe from Sherlock's shoulders. It pooled around him, soft and shining as John lifted the worn gray tee over the long torso of the detective. Topless, pale, but warm. So very, very warm.

John leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's prominent collarbone, kissing the curve of its features. He worked his way up, up Sherlock's slender neck, paying extra attention to the few freckles scattered sporadically across his skin. Up, to the underside of his jaw. Up to his lips, round and soft, pointed and square, a paradox of angles. Up, to those wicked cheekbones _(he looks)_. Kissing his brow, refusing to move his eyes away from the startlingly blue ones focused on him _(like an angel)_.

Now down, down to his sculpted chest. John placed his mouth against Sherlock's nipple experimentally, darting his tongue around the tender flesh. There was a rumble in the man's chest that tickled John's lips, a deep moan that barely made it past his throat. It was pure and honest, and the doctor felt a hand atop his head. It gripped him gently, did not interfere. Sherlock just wanted to be closer, closer to him. He blushed, hoping Sherlock could not see.

Lower still, across his abdominal muscles and down to his navel, where a fine trail of hair led down past his hips. John kissed and licked, digging his fingers into Sherlock's pelvic bone as he moved. Underneath him, Sherlock growled in pleasure and frustration. Beneath the soft material of his pajamas (which were currently caressing John's chin) he was hard as a rock. John curled his fingers beneath the waistband and began to lower them, grinning as Sherlock cursed at his slow pace.

As he neared the curve of Sherlock's thigh, he paused.

"You're not wearing any pants…"

"No."

"…For four days?"

"Obviously."

Sherlock was smiling; John could hear it in his voice.

"Were you- planning this?"

"Perhaps."

The terse treatment, then? A lovely game, one John was irrationally excited by.

"I'll get you to talk, you know."

John began anew, brushing his fingers through the downy hair at Sherlock's crotch, breathing close to the skin revealed by his half-removed trousers. Beneath John, Sherlock trembled with lust.

"I'll get you to scream."


	4. Engulfed by its fire

Scream? Surely not. Sherlock Holmes was not a screamer, nor was he one to give away the machinations of his mind. John could try. Oh god, he wanted him to try. He hadn't expected to be so carried away by the seas of lust suppressed inside of him, but from the moment John forced him backward he was lost; lost to the rational word, lost in the sensory feast being laid before him. He felt as though every nerve of his body was alive and electrified, waiting to be stimulated. It was sensational.

John began working his pajamas down once more, leaning in much too close, his breath hot and moist against Sherlock's delicate flesh. Sherlock watched with eager eyes as he was left naked before John Hamish Watson, age 37, army surgeon and conductor of the brightest light. The doctor sat back, taking in the image of Sherlock nude for the first time. Dark, curly hair, perfectly maintained, rested above the swell of his cock. He was large, apparently more than John had expected. Sherlock listened as he sucked in a breath through closed teeth. He quickly regained his senses and lowered himself, kissing the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

_Oh, you tease._

Sherlock was up quickly, pulling John up with him. He gripped the man by his jumper and buried his lip in the hollow of his throat. John was solid beneath him, unyielding even as the moans slipped from his mouth. His vocal chords vibrated. Sherlock loved it.

"My turn," he half-growled as he pushed firmly on John's chest.

John leaned back, his eyes half-closed as Sherlock began to undress him. John was a gift, a present, and he wanted to unwrap him as slowly as he would them. First his jumper, warm and slightly itchy, followed by his tight white undershirt. Oh yes, yes, perfect.

Muscular and scarred, John's torso was exquisite. Shot there, in the shoulder. Stabbed and cut multiple times, what looked suspiciously like the bite of a whip peeking out from around his back. Oh, it was like a map, a map just for Sherlock Holmes to devour and catalogue. Every wound John had ever received, laid out before Sherlock's hungry gaze. Broken ribs once. Broken collar bone. Rotary cuff injury. Torn ligament. John was a warrior, and it showed on every inch of his flesh.

Sherlock sighed as he kissed a trail down John's stomach, stroking his sides with his slender fingers. As he reached the denim barrier of the doctor's jeans, he darted his tongue just under the band. It flicked against John's skin, wet and warm, Sherlock's breath stirring the blonde hair nested beneath it. Above him, John sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Sherlock smiled coyly, moving to undo the leather belt holding the trousers in place.

He slipped it out and tossed it aside, his eyes focused on John as he undid the button. As John held his gaze, he pinched the zipper between two fingers and pulled it down with agonizing slowness. The sound was loud in the stillness of the room- neither of them dared to breathe. Sherlock hooked his hands into the jeans and pulled, his knuckles caressing the bare skin of John's legs. A tremor ran though his body at the contact. Sherlock watched as his breathing increased, fascinated by the fluttering of his eyelids.

"You're beautiful," he whispered as he undressed John. He meant it.

The jeans joined the pile of clothes gathering on the floor. Sherlock leaned close to John's thighs, bright eyes focused on his face as he leaned close to the bulge beneath his pants. He inhaled, catching the scent of denim, cotton, and sweat. It was erotic, an aphrodisiac like he had never experienced before. His eyes snapped closed, cataloging the sensation, trapping it for later. It was something he never wanted to lose.

Sherlock placed his hand over the material, gently cupping and massaging John through the fabric. Above him John moaned and clenched the sheet in his fist, unable to keep his eyes from closing beneath the waves of pleasure threatening to swallow him. Sherlock smiled hungrily, relished the feel of the soft cotton dampening beneath his palm.

"Sherlock," John choked out, "stop, I don't… Not like this, not like a teenager, please…"

Cracking on eye open, Sherlock risked a quick glance up at his partner. John was flushed, his heart pounding visibly in the pulse-points of his throat, his muscles tight-

Oh.

Sherlock ceased his caressing and decided to finish undressing John, pulling off his red pants and tossing them aside. He leaned back, content to study the new territory as John recovered. His legs were covered with course blonde hair, muscular and defined even after the damage of the psychosomatic limp. These, too, were scarred, but noticeably less so. There were traces of minor cuts, evidence of one bone broken in childhood, and a few burn marks. It was incredible. He forced his gaze upward, along the shapely thighs and-

_OH._

Much like the rest of him, John's cock was broad and defined, surrounded by course golden curls.

"You shaved last week," Sherlock murmured, running his fingers through John's hairs, "but it's grown back quickly. How often do you get your hair cut, then?"

John chuckled, a sound so unique to him that hearing it made Sherlock's heart swell.

"Once a week, when I can afford it. When I can't, Mrs. Hudson is happy to help. I trim my nails every few days; they grow incredibly fast. Good genetics, I suppose. And how do you-"

"An errant hair on your towel, John."

"God, Sherlock… Do you really pay that close attention to me? Have I been missing the signs this whole time? DON'T. Don't answer that."

Sherlock's mouth snapped closed, and John smiled down at him. His hands rested behind his head, propping him up to watch Sherlock's every move. He really was gorgeous, and at times he seemed almost magnetic. People were drawn to him, in ways he didn't seem to catch. It kept him modest. Sherlock liked it.

"What do you want to do, John?"

"You're the one who's been plotting, aren't you? I assumed you had something in mind."

Sherlock rose, icy gaze fixed on John, and began to crawl up the bed. He licked his upper lip and watched as John's body shuddered in response. He knew how to move his hips, knew how to rotate his shoulders in time with his gyrations, and the way John watched, the way his breath caught… it was glorious. Sherlock loved the attention. When he reached John's chest, he placed a cool hand on his neck and drew him close.

"I know exactly what I want, John," he whispered against the doctor's ear, "I want you to tie me up. I want you to blindfold me. I want you to touch me until I can't stand it, until I strain against my bonds and writhe beneath you. I want to hear you speak to me, telling me what you're going to do, lying, keeping me guessing. I want the world narrowed down to the sounds and scents of you, and me, until we're the only things that exist. I want to to bring you to the brink and hurt you, mark you, make you bleed. I want you to scream my name, beg me for more, beg for me. Then, and only then, will I push you over the edge. I want to experience so much _with_ you, John, and I want to do so much _to_ you, that I don't know where to begin. So tell me, John. Tell me what you want."

He leaned back, a very Sherlock smirk on his face, as he observed John's reaction. The doctor's eyes were closed, his breath ragged, his nails digging into his palms as he processed everything that passed Sherlock's arched lips.

"I… _bloody hell_, Sherlock…"


	5. Follow the Trail

John was staring. Jesus, he was staring. Sherlock was laying it on thick, his heavy-lidded eyes locked on the doctor's, his hand tracing lazy circles on John's chest. It was hard to think, hard to breathe, when he looked so ready to fuck.

"I want to make you mine, Sherlock. I want to strip away all your defenses, all your senses, until you're drowning in the tiny slivers of sensation I DO give you. I'm going to drive you half-mad with deprivation. Do you like that, Sherlock?"

"Mmm. Yes, John, I do."

John rose from the bed and cast a quick glance around the room, his brow furrowed.

"Closet. Left-side floor. Black box."

With a nod John stepped towards the door. He found the box with relative ease, a thin black suitcase that had probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, and carried it gingerly to the bed. Inside rested a strange assortment of gear, ranging from stolen police-issue handcuffs to leather blindfolds and gags. John couldn't help but be surprised- for a man who wanted control in every aspect of his life, he sure seemed eager to give it up between the sheets.

Sherlock watched him carefully, trying to deduce what he'd remove, but John had a plan. He slipped a leather blindfold into his palm and gripped it tightly, falling into parade rest as he moved closer to Sherlock.

"Sherlock. Look at me and tell me what you see."

"You're distractingly aroused, your heart rate seems to be stabilizing, you're picturing me in black rope and possibly in women's lingerie, you never realized you love the smell of leather until tonight, and you still seem to think you can make me scream for you while half-mad with ecstasy. You're wrong. I'm going to love proving it to you."

"How could you possibly know what I was picturing?"

Sherlock has a tell, one John noticed during their first case together. When Sherlock gets ready to explain his deductions, he always looks away first. It's just a moment, enough to clear his mind and pull all the evidence forward, but it's enough. John has the blindfold over him in the span of a heartbeat, tying it tightly against his wild curls. Sherlock arched his back in surprise.

"You're good," he whispered.

With Sherlock unable to watch, John smiled as he sifted through the man's toys. The handcuffs felt too low-class for Sherlock's slender wrists, and there was no time for fancy rope bondage. However, a bundle of black silk straps caught John's eye. Perfect for restraining wrists without the risk of damage, and easy to use. John slipped two from their ribbon.

Sherlock was sitting upright, using his arms to hold himself up, his legs folded neatly beneath him. A smirk played across his features as the bed dipped beside him. John counted to ten, breathing slowly, trying not to be distracted by Sherlock's erection, by the rise and fall of his naked chest, by the way the light threw his body into stark contrast. Roughly, quickly, he seized his arms and pulled backward. Sherlock fell with a gasp as John wound the cloth around his wrists.

"Be still," John growled, and Sherlock obliged with a small moan.

John was rough as he tied Sherlock to the headboard, the cloth strips leaving rough red marks where he pulled too tightly. As he finished the knot he withdrew from the bed, leaving Sherlock alone and vulnerable.

"John… Don't gag me. I want to be able to talk."

That was interesting, but not out of the norm for Sherlock. John let the gag fall back into the briefcase and latched it, placing it out of the way on the floor.

"You have free reign with me, John, but there are rules you need to follow. Don't place anything in my mouth, don't use anything with a strong scent, and don't stop unless I command you to."

Somehow his voice was still weighted with lust, even as he instructed John. It was so antithetical, and it sent waves of heat down into John's groin. He bit his lip as he moved to stand at the foot of the bed. He swept his eyes of the pale expanse of flesh before him, barely scarred for all his injuries, all angles and wiry strength… There was no other word for it. Sherlock was fucking beautiful.

"It's a pity we don't have any leather gloves."

"Why do you say that, John?"

Sherlock WOULD accentuate a simple question with a roll of his hips. Bastard.

"I, uh… You remind me of someone. You probably wouldn't know him, an industrial singer from America. Harry was really into his work in the 90's, Trent-"

"Reznor, of Nine Inch Nails. Yes, you're referring to the video for Closer, aren't you? Just a few frames of him, bound, writhing against his bonds… Funny that comes to mind. Why, John?"

John sighed.

"Your hair is dark, your skin pale. You're very muscular, which is unexpected considering how slight you often appear. You're blindfolded, you're restrained, and…"

Beneath the leather, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. God, it was sexy.

"And, John?"

"And the song applies. It… it pops in my head sometimes, so loud I often fear you'll hear it. When you come in wrapped in nothing but a sheet, when your hair is wet from the rain, when you hold a wineglass to your lips at Angelo's, when you drop your voice impossibly lower, where it seems to be on a frequency only my blood can hear…"

"Come, John. Fuck me. Fuck me like an animal."


	6. Takes Me Away

Sherlock knew that the most fascinating element of John Hamish Watson was his ability to be absolutely unpredictable. He had a habit of defying all of Sherlock's expectations, and it thrilled the detective. Here, unable to see, unable to touch, he knew he could rely on John to surprise him.

A normal person would throw themselves into the fire, ravaging and pillaging the body so thoroughly offered. Would John?

He waited. And waited. And then he waited some more. John wasn't moving. He could smell him, near the foot of the bed, but he wasn't doing anything. Maybe he needed encouragement. For this to work, John would need to participate. Sherlock licked his lips slowly and rolled his hips with the motion, hoping to draw John in.

It started almost instantly, a heat that spread from his feet to his groin. The bed shifted around him- John was crawling over him without touching, letting the warmth of his body speak for itself. He lingered, and Sherlock felt his breath stirring the dark patch of hair near his cock. He managed not to make a sound.

Up it moved, until he felt John's breath on his chest. Now he was pressed against him, skin against skin, and Sherlock sucked in air.

"Nothing in your mouth means I can't kiss you again, doesn't it?"

"Not yet."

"That's a shame; I'd love to see what your mouth could do."

His voice came from beside Sherlock's ear; his lips brushed the skin, and it occurred to Sherlock that he hadn't even felt John shift. He trembled with desire. It was both chaste and filthy, an impossibility, but Sherlock loved it.

The pressure on his chest subsided as John moved again, trailing kisses down Sherlock's bare chest. He arched into them, eliciting a chuckle from John as he ran his tongue around Sherlock's navel.

"For a man so physically detached, you seem to be enjoying yourself."

John placed a hand on his thigh, pushing it apart as he moved on. A hot tongue along the curve of his hip finally pulled a sound from Sherlock, moaning as John's teeth grazed his skin. It was slow torture.

From nowhere, he felt something hot and wet against the cleft of his ass. Soft hair tickled his thigh as strong hands lifted his hips from the mattress. His senses narrowed until there was only John, his face buried in Sherlock, his tongue lapping languidly at the sensitive flesh of his anus. He was tracing letters, writing his name over and over. iJohnJohnJohnJohn-/i  
Something unintelligible passed through Sherlock's pointed lips as he realized what John was writing. In his own way, John was marking him. His. Oh, god, it was incredibly hot, somehow hotter than the other filthy things he was doing with that tongue. Sherlock moved to wraps his fingers in John's hair, only to remember he was thoroughly bound. He groaned in frustration.

"John, that's… That's perfect…"

His voice had dropped an octave, impossibly deep, heavy with the sound of his arousal, his lust… As he spoke, John pushed deeper, until he was positively fucking him with his mouth. He increased his speed, swirling his tongue inside of Sherlock as the detective fought for breath. He knew he was writhing, knew he must look like a fool, but he didn't care. John was too far away for his scent to carry in the still room, so there was nothing to focus on but the feeling, pure and maddening. With one free hand, John caressed Sherlock's cock. It was a light touch, just a brush of the knuckles, but the friction was enough to send Sherlock's mind spinning.

"John, please, more. I need- I need more."

He wished he could glance at him, watch him bury his tongue inside him, watch him grin as he listened to Sherlock's responses, but he had asked for this. He wanted to touch his hair, his face, his erection. Wanted to make him moan, and squirm, and come with Sherlock's name on his lips…

But there'd be time for that later. Now was about giving John the time he needed to map, to conquer, while Sherlock catalogued sensation. And scent. God, he couldn't wait. It would require him surrendering wholly, this time at least, but he felt he could handle it. To capture the scent of John, sweaty and spent, in the purest possible state- it was worth more than anything filed away in his mind, his most precious gift. Thinking of it made him harder, swelling against the back of John's hand as the muscle twitched in anticipation. Yes, it would be worth the wait indeed. John could take all the time in the world; he wouldn't be able to fight his own need forever.

"This may hurt."

That was the only warning he received before John forced two slick fingers inside of him. White pain raced along his nerves; he gasped in shock. It faded as quickly as it had come, and John began to move. He pumped his wrist and curled his fingers, stretching Sherlock as he massaged his prostate. Behind the leather blindfold Sherlock saw stars, pleasure flooding every inch of him. Each thrust brought fresh bliss rolling through his body. John's knowledge of the human body was incredible. He knew exactly was he was doing.

Precome dripped down the head of his shaft, wet and warm, and John chuckled darkly. He must've been watching carefully.

"We'll take care of that soon, I promise. Just lean back and enjoy, Sherlock. After all, you did ask for this."

It was incredibly unfair how sexy John sounded, his soft voice filled with desire. Sherlock glared at his blindfold, trying to will it away with the force of his longing. Of course, it was useless. He hadn't wanted anything to muddle the data, to interrupt his study, but he hadn't counted on how distracting it would be under John's control, moving at John's pace, letting himself be fondled and penetrated while he was so helpless. Admittedly, he loved every minute of it.

He let his head fall back against the pillows, groaning as John leaned forward and licked a trail along his shaft.

"I want to draw this out, to make it excruciating for you… To possess every inch of your attention, to make you drown in me, it's the best gift I've ever received. That's the problem, though- I don't know how long _I_ can last."

John was speaking near his groin, his hot breath nearly agonizing against the sensitive skin. He slipped his mouth down around the head, flicking his tongue around the flared edge with surprising skill. Sherlock moaned and arched his hips, trying to drive his cock deeper into John's warm throat. As his fingers worked in and out (three now, Christ), he worked his mouth up and down. Sherlock was sweating, shaking, fighting to keep his wits as the pleasure assaulted him. It was a tough battle.

Without warning John's mouth and fingers gone, leaving Sherlock empty and cold. He groaned in disappointment. _Torture, he's torturing me, and I love it._

The bed dipped down with his weight. There was a wet slicking sound, and Sherlock could picture it- John's callused hands gliding over his erection, his eyes burning with arousal as he maps Sherlock's body with his eyes, licking his lips as he fantasizes…

John grabbed his hips roughly, lifting him off the mattress as he slipped his thighs underneath. The flesh-on-flesh contact was sensational, and Sherlock began to pant. The doctor was shifting, caressing Sherlock's stomach as he rubbed their cocks together. _Frotting_, Sherlock thought briefly, i_such a strange name for such a sensual thing_/i, but any coherent sentences floating through his mind vanished as John stopped rutting against him and plunged his slick manhood inside of him.

"Sherlock," John gasped as he began to thrust, "god, you feel incredible!"

"Come to me, John. Up here."

He wrapped his legs tightly around the doctor's hips and pulled him forwards, sending him sprawling across his pale chest. His head came up to Sherlock's neck, and he began sinking his teeth into the pale skin of the man's collarbone as he pushed deeper. Sherlock moaned, bucking his hips into every one of John's thrusts, even as his nostrils began to flare. He drank in the man's scent, noticing the way it grew more intense the closer he came to the brink.

_Sweat, obviously._

_Shampoo, an off-brand, scented chemically with menthol._

_Ginger, from tea, sweetened with milk. No sugar, enough in the mixture._

_Freshly-laundered wool, softened with a dryer sheet._

_The metallic tang of sex, nearly overwhelming._

_Shaving cream, unscented, leaving a faintly mechanical trace on his skin._

_And- THERE. There it is! The missing piece!_

Sherlock drank in the aroma, he _drowned_ in it, impregnating himself through his innermost pores, until he was full of John himself. He has said his name hundreds of times before, had seen John a hundred times before. He understood him, for all the time they spent together and everything he saw about the man. In the dim light of his bedroom he saw nothing, heard nothing, he felt nothing. He only smelled the pure, naked aroma of John rising around him, capturing him in the throes of their matched ecstasy.

"John," he managed to choke up, as if he were filled with it, as if buried in John to his neck, as if his throat were spilling over with him. It was that single word, which he understood with more clarity than ever, which managed to bring him back to himself before he lost control of his mind entirely.

As John spilled into him, biting his flesh, the new knowledge pushed him over the edge. He came, spattering his seed across John's strong stomach, whispering his name in a breathless baritone, digging his long fingers into the silk straps holding his wrists hostage. The world went white, his heart hammering in his chest as he sucked in air, letting himself dwell on his new olfactory experience. Bliss. It was pure bliss.

John managed to fumble the cloth strips open before collapsing on Sherlock's chest, panting, exhausted. Sherlock wrapped his tingling arms around his broad back, massaging the damp flesh, fighting not to gorge his senses with his scent- it would be too much, far too much for him to handle.

They lay entwined for what seemed like ages, relaxing, basking in the afterglow of their overindulgent sex. Sherlock didn't want to move, didn't want to lose the reassuring weight of John across his chest. He was so near, so overpowering, so…

His thoughts came to a halt as he noticed the aroma fading, forsaking him and his sensitive olfactory senses, teasing him as the last wisps disappeared quickly from his scrutinizing breaths.

This would not do, it would not do at all. He needed that scent, needed to recreate it, to capture it, to possess it. He would need to experiment, to find a way to make it solely his, forever.

He resolved to begin on the morrow.

At least he hadn't screamed.


	7. Works For Me

John woke late, alone in an unfamiliar room. _Sherlock's, _he thought, a lopsided grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He stretched as he slipped out from under the sheets, his joints popping with relief, before he moved to the shower. Fifteen minutes later he emerged through the kitchen, his short-clipped hair sticking out every which way as he tied the belt on his robe. Sherlock was perched on the kitchen stool; four or five small vials were covering the table in front him, and he seemed to be carefully using a stopper to combine their contents in a container of amber liquid set further away.

"Back to experiments already then? Any time in your pressing schedule for a chat?"

His voice was warm, but he knew there was a hard edge there only the detective would discern. Sherlock gingerly placed the dropper on the table and turned to face John, smiling warmly as he did.

"John, this isn't something dangerous or deadly. It's about you, and quite frankly you're extremely important to its success. We'll have our chat, I promise, but right now I need to work on this."

"How am I important to the outcome of your little… whatever it is?"

"It's a surprise, John, but it's related to something I told you last night."

John opened him mouth to reply, but Sherlock had resumed his careful measuring. With a shrug the doctor put the kettle on, hovering nearby so the whistle didn't disturb Sherlock. It was hard to imagine the day being so… well, normal, by 221B standards. He had assumed (_hoped, really) _that something would change, something noticeable, but everything seemed as it was. Sherlock was doing god knows what _with _god knows what in the kitchen, the tea was on, and John was left alone with his thoughts once more. He poured himself a cuppa (and one for Sherlock, just in case) and sat down in his worn red chair, preparing to check his blog for cases r comments. He opened his laptop, feeling the small rush of pleasure that always accompanied the movement, only to frown deeply as he saw what as open.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"One, can you just use your own computer for once? My battery's nearly dead! Two, why the hell are you interested in perfumes?"

"One, no, yours was closer, and two, I told you. It's an experiment. If it's successful, I'll show you."

John sighed and stood, heading upstairs to grab his power cord. He spent the better part of ten minutes searching for the blasted thing before he finally found it tucked in his hamper (_I'll bet Sherlock had something to do with this,_ he thought with a frown). He took the stairs heavily, letting his general feelings on the matter be known through the leaden thump of his feet. He knew it'd annoy Sherlock, and as petty as that sounded the man couldn't even be considerate enough to plug a laptop in when he was done. Yes, things were definitely back to normal in 221B.

Once the computer was connected John checked his email, his bad mood fading as he scrolled through the comments. Harry had left another teasing comment on the account of their last case, and John smiled at the thought of telling her about Sherlock. _Yeah, me too, Harry, I shagged Sherlock last night. Oh, it was fantastic, I'm a little mad we hadn't done it sooner. I can't wait to see the look on his face the next time you come by, it's going to be-_

Sherlock screamed in frustration as he slammed his arm into the table, sending tiny glass vials smashing against the walls and floor. Within seconds the whole flat reeked of alcohol and other scents John couldn't place, and he closed his computer with a resigned sigh.

"It isn't _working. _I've tried at least six compounds today, and nothing, NOTHING is combining correctly!"

Sherlock slammed a fist down on the oak table, his face twisted into a snarl.

"Sherlock, come here, don't-"

"John, I _need_ this."

Sherlock's face softened as his voice dropped an octave. He moved closer to John, his head lowered, his eyes burning.

"Sherlock, you'll solve it, whatever it is you're trying to do. You always conquer your experiments. It's been-"

"Five hours," he filled in helpfully.

"Jesus, alright, it's been five hours since you woke up and decided to smell up the flat. Come on, I'll get dressed and we'll go out for a while. We can stop by the Met, see if Lestrade's in need of that beautiful brain of yours."

Sherlock smiled down at John, his gaze calming at the prospect of a new case. He straightened his jacket and planted a kiss atop John's drying hair.

"I'd like to be back by dark. Some of my components have extremely short shelf lives, and I need to use them by eight o'clock."

John nodded absentmindedly as he moved towards the stairs. Sherlock followed, and a small smile twisted itself across John's thin lips. As he crossed the threshold to his room Sherlock hovered outside, silent, watching. John felt he could afford a show for the man. He untied his robe and dropped in, completely bare underneath. Sherlock sucked in a breath. John moved to ward his closet thankful that the door opened toward the wall. He slowly sorted through his nicer shirts, finally settling on a cream-colored button-down that he knew made his eyes stand out. He pulled down a black suit jacket next, stepping over the bed and laying them down gingerly.

He turned to face Sherlock as he moved to his dresser, removing a pair of jeans he knew to be snug. For added effect, he grabbed a pair of socks- but no pants. Sherlock's eyes ran up and down his body as he pulled on the jeans, grinning as they widened when he did up the fly. Nope, tonight John Hamish Watson was going commando, and he _wanted_ Sherlock to see, to know. He shrugged his way into the cream shirt, buttoning it from the top down. He noticed how Sherlock's eyes followed the slow movements of his hands, how they lingered on the fine trail of his abdomen before he closed off the view with a quick button. He tugged on his sock and jacket and moved toward Sherlock with a bright smile.

"Ready?"

"Not anymore."

"That's too bad; I'll just have to leave without you."

John shouldered his way past, grinning madly. He could feel Sherlock's heated gaze on him as he moved, taking the stairs slowly so that he had no choice but to stare. It did wonderful things to his ego. He hailed, and a cab pulled up to the curb promptly. He was already seated inside, checking his phone, as Sherlock slipped in beside him.

"Where to, gentlemen?"

"The Met, please."


	8. Above the Trees

Regardless of what Sherlock thought of him, Greg Lestrade was a decently observant man. Hard work had earned him the position of Detective Inspector, and though Sherlock ranted and raved about the Met's efficiency, hardly any cases went unsolved under his leadership. When Sherlock and John walked into his office he immediately knew what had happened. _Anderson owes me a hundred quid, it would seem._

"Can I help you boys?"

"Yes, Detective Inspector. I was wondering if there are any cases dangling precariously over your head that I could solve effortlessly for you."

John sighed and reached to shake Greg's hand. The greeting was steady and firm- Greg liked John, his military mannerisms made him right at home among the police.

"What he means is 'Hello, Greg. How've you been? Catch the match last night?"

Lestrade smiled and Sherlock snorted derisively.

"I did, in fact, down at the pub. I was a bit too pissed to remember it, but someone definitely won. And no, Sherlock, we've been able to handle everything thrown our way. No mysterious murders, no incredibly unlikely thefts, no explosions, nothing big enough to catch your interest. If I need you, I'll call."

"That seems incredibly unlikely. If there's one thing I appreciate about London's criminal network, it's that it's always trying to outdo itself. I find it rather hard to believe that nothing's surfaced that requires my assistance."

John rolled his eyes in Greg's direction and placed a hand on his partner's crisp sleeve.

"Thanks, Greg. Thought we'd give it a shot. Let's go, Sherlock."

As Sherlock wheeled toward the door, John spared a backward glance at the DI seated behind his desk. Greg tipped him a wink as the pair disappeared out the door.

It was the truth. Things had been quiet of late; petty crimes, mostly, a few civil disputes, drunk crashes, nothing out of their league. Hell, nothing even for Homicide to deal with. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to see that as an unfortunate situation. With nothing better to do, Greg settled back in his chair with a newspaper and a coffee. The calm warranted a bit of rest.

When his door burst open four hours later, he jolted awake. Sally Donovan stood leaning through the opening, her face grim. From the hall, Greg could hear the sound of shouting and running.

"Detective Inspector, there's been a body found near Vincent Street."

"When?"

"About ten minutes ago, sir."

Greg grabbed his coat and made to follow her as she disappeared through the door. He couldn't help but think of Sherlock as Homicide gathered. _He's going to be pleased, at least._


	9. This Scent Consumes

Stalking through the dark London streets, a wide scowl stretched across his face, Sherlock fumed. He hadn't planned the discussion to turn so… hostile. It had been going so well, before she showed up- all long legs and disgustingly cheap perfume, more alcohol than fragrance, ruining the homey aroma of baked bread and spices that saturated the restaurant. Her short skirt seemed to be a beacon for John's gaze. Really, could he not see the way her eyes darted around the room? She was checking on companions approaching similar men: late thirties, not alone, with kind faces and worn clothes. They were aiming for a free meal or drink, honing in on the men least likely to refuse them. Surely John should have been glad to know.

Instead, he had berated Sherlock for a good ten minutes in the alley.

"Sherlock, she was harmless! All she wanted was a drink, surely last night didn't change things enough that I'm not allowed to be kind to strangers! That was absolutely uncalled for, and I don't believe you're being truthful here."

"John, her and her friends were conning men just like you out of other gifts in there. They kept shooting each other subtle signals; all four of them would have made their way by before we left, each with more pathetic a story and shorter skirt, fleecing you for as much as they could. I was saving you the strain on your funds. I thought you'd be grateful."

John smirked, crossing his arms across his chest as he appraised the detective.

"You were jealous."

"I most certainly was not."

"You were! The great Sherlock Holmes, threatened by college girls. That's rich."

"John, I was not-"

"Look, Sherlock."

John drew close, standing as tall as he could, his blue eyes locked on Sherlock's. One strong finger dug into his chest as the doctor spoke.

"I care about you, more than I should. You're my whole world now, you and the clinic. I work, I come home, you need me, I work more. Hell, Sherlock, I love you. But you? You do not own me. Until you can tell me what exactly it is I mean to you, we're not an item, we're not a couple, we're flatmates and friends. I'm not going to shag you, I'm not going to kiss you, I won't so much as touch you until you can look me in the eyes and give me an answer. I thought that after last night, after tonight, maybe you were ready. You're not. Who knows if you ever will be? Not me. But I can't take this. I can't take the rude deductions, the venomous sarcasm, the daggers in your eyes, when you can't even be bothered to say so much as "yes" to me. Do you understand, Sherlock?"

John smelled of curry and naan bread, of crystal water and his cheap deodorant, of desperation and boiling anger and profound sadness, and over every other scent the cheap perfume lingered, teasing Sherlock. _I had him, I had him, he thought of me, bent over the counter, giggling, while you watched-_

Sherlock gulped and nodded, refusing to look away. John backed down and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Right, then. I'll hail us a cab."

The moment he reached the street Sherlock turned, desperate to get away. He couldn't be near John, not now, not when he smelled of that insufferable woman. He had been so close, so very near to saying it.

_"So what do you think, Sherlock? About… us. This. Whatever it is we're doing. I need to know, especially if you plan on, uh, continuing."_

_ "John, I…"_

And there she came, sliding up to their table with a blush, her clothes tight and her smile radiant. John couldn't see it, though. He couldn't smell the last man she'd conned (maybe half an hour before, in an alley, on her knees), the small track marks on her inner arm (very good at hiding them; makeup, perhaps?), the signals she shot with her facial expressions. John only saw the good; Sherlock only saw the bad. It was one of the many fundamental differences between them.

John had texted him six times in the three hours since his impromptu departure. He seemed worried. _Good, let him worry. _Tonight he wanted to lose himself in London, to the new sights and scents awaiting his analysis. There was a reason he loved living in the heart of the city- nothing remained the same. Every night brought new visitors, new animals, new foods, new music, new clubs. It was an overwhelming experience, and one that would serve well to clear his head.

It even began to work, until Sherlock caught the traces of something new on the tails of the wind. It was dark, a musky scent laced with warm citrus and smoky fire, unlike anything his delicate senses had ever encountered. He began to increase his pace, chasing the fading fragrance through the twisting streets and empty alleys. Finally the aroma grew stronger, giving him something tangible to follow, and he broke into a full run.

Finally he came to a halt at the entrance to a dimly lit alley. Crouched beneath an overhead lamp was a young man, mid twenties, spinning dice on a flat piece of cardboard. As Sherlock drew closer the scent grew stronger- yes, it was coming from the man. He was silent as he moved, breathing softly through his nostrils, careful not to alert the other of his presence.

The man was facing away from the street, completely oblivious to the evening traffic as he practiced his craft. Sherlock could read his life story even from a distance- poor, but not homeless, from an abusive family with a history of alcoholism. He himself neither drank nor did drugs, but he did have an addiction: chance. He loved to play against it, to wield it as a weapon. It gave him a rush. Here, as he played with his plastic dice, his pockets were loaded with two hundred to three hundred pounds, most of which he'd spend on food and bills before the week was out. He lived day to day, but it excited him in a way nothing else ever could.

Sherlock could sympathize.

With steady hands Sherlock removed his scarf and pulled it taut between his fists. He crouched, breathing in the exotic fragrance of the man, letting it record itself in his mind. His arms rose. The world stopped as he brought the soft cloth to the man's windpipe and began to pull, leaning in close and pressing his nose against the hot skin of his neck. Beneath him the man thrashed and clawed at his neck, fighting to breathe, but Sherlock would not allow him. His movements slowed and finally stilled as his body suffocated. Sherlock removed his scarf and tore the man's shirt open, hovering above his cooling skin. He inhaled deeply, careful to keep his hands and hair clear of the body. Just like with John the night before, the intoxicating scent emanating from his flesh began to fade, evaporating into memory even as Sherlock fought to trap it. When it had finally disappeared he stood and, with one final disdainful look at the body, he left.

As soon as he was far enough away from the alley to feel safe he checked his phone.

_You wanna tell my why you pulled a disappearing act?_

_-JW_

_ If you're going to be out late, will you at least bring back some milk?_

_-JW_

_ Sherlock, I'm sorry. Please, come home._

_-JW_

_I miss you._

_-JW_

_Sherlock, where are you? _

_-JW_

_Just… be safe, okay? Christ, be safe._

_-JW _

Sherlock smiled as he ran his thumb over the screen. He had a vague idea of the experiments he'd need to do in order to find the missing key now, and that was more than he'd had this morning. Row and all, it'd been a rather pleasant day. John was waiting for him, worried sick from the sound of it, and Sherlock knew exactly what they both needed.

_Home in 15. Tonight is my turn._

_-SH_


	10. Absence of Faith

John paced around the apartment, a grimace working its way across his features. The row had been… well, a bit not good. He hadn't _meant _to let his guard down, to let his feelings known in such a delicate situation, but Sherlock had been so ridiculously possessive and it just seemed-

It seemed like he needed to say it. It had worked, at least; Sherlock had shut up rather immediately, looking confused and hurt. He knew the man hated feeling wrong, but John was putting his foot down. Sure, the young woman had been attractive (although a bit too young for his tastes), and he may have been guilty of flirting just a _little, _but…

Okay, so maybe flirting with the cute young girl while trying to get Sherlock to speak about his emotions was an incredibly stupid idea. Sentiment was hardly the detective's specialty, and he had been so close to opening up before the damned blonde with the short skirt slid up with a sheepish grin.

Ugh, it was all his fault.

He pulled out his phone. He had sent his first message an hour ago, the second thirty minutes ago, and Sherlock had not responded to either.

_You wanna tell my why you pulled a disappearing act?_

_-JW_

_If you're going to be out late, will you at least bring back some milk?_

_-JW _

John figured the silence was because Sherlock needed time alone. Alright, he understood. He could relate. It had been an hour, there was no reason to worry. Still, though, he felt he should let Sherlock know he was sorry- the man's pride was a fickle beast, one that had been pretty badly wounded during the argument.

_Sherlock, I'm sorry. Please, come home._

_-JW_

There. That should fix it. In theory, at least. John sank to the couch and flipped on the telly, eager for any form of distraction. The images raced past his vision without entirely sinking in. It was hard to focus; he felt like a right arse for demanding so _much_ of Sherlock so soon, but, jesus. He had waited so long for the time to be right, for any form of sign, and then out the blue everything was right in their world-

And he may have just fucked everything up.

God dammit. He wasn't prepared to feel this way.

John sighed and rose, moving toward the kitchen as he tried to still the knot of anxiety churning in his stomach. He needed a drink, a stiff one. Sherlock kept a bottle of scotch for "esteemed guests" (meaning Mycroft, of course, because the scotch was formal and far less welcoming than tea), and John wasn't sure he had ever opened it. It sat tucked back in the cupboard, faintly coated with dust, and John thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"Hello, love. I'll take it slow, I promise."

He was talking to liquor. Okay, maybe he was a little worse off than he originally estimated. He pulled a glass down and filled it nearly to the brim, carrying it and the bottle back to the couch. He tossed back drinks as he cycled through the telly, hardly noticing the passage of time.

Well, alright, that was a lie. As time ticked away and his sobriety fled, John sent more texts, increasingly desperate. He couldn't remember them entirely; all he recalled was pressing the 'send' key with a frown. Finally, around two a.m. his phone chimed.

_Home in 15. Tonight is my turn._

_-SH._

John grinned broadly as he rose, stumbling into the coffee table with a loud 'Oof!' He had drunk a good fifth of the bottle by himself, and it was affecting him pretty heavily. When he heard the sound of feet bounding up the stairs two at a time, he couldn't help but move toward the door eagerly. He was halfway there when it flew open with a bang, revealing Sherlock standing with something burning in his pale eyes.

"Whad'you mean, it's your turn?" John was good about not slurring his words when he was in his cups, and he was rather proud of this. Sherlock hardly seemed to notice.

"Bedroom, John. Now. Tonight, you're mine."


	11. My Everything

He knew John was drunk. The liquor he had stashed for special occasions was open on the table, a fair amount missing. It would change his smell. Sherlock was only momentarily frustrated, as John was stripping while he moved- it was impossible to look away. He only stumbled twice as he moved toward the bed. Fascinating.

"Sherlock, I'm-" He cut John off with a shake of his head.

"Do you know what you do to me, John? Do you know how much I care about you? I love you, and when I see you with- like that, I just can't help it. I know you don't understand, but I want you, I want you to be mine. Your scent drives me utterly mad, John. I need it, I need you, I need you to see. I need you to know."

John looked up at the pacing detective, his eyes wide. It wasn't exactly how he wanted to hear it.

"I need to own you, John. I need to show you. Let me show you, please. Give me your body for tonight. Let me consume you."

"Sherlock, yes, I- god, yes. Please."

That was all the encouragement he needed. He surged across the room, to where John sat in nothing but a T-shirt, pressing their mouths together with teeth-clacking force. Sherlock was half-mad with need, with adrenaline. His excursion in the alleyway had set something powerful in motion inside of him, something that roared and screamed to be released.

With steady hands he tore at John's top, baring his chest, breaking away from the kiss to bite and suck at his neck. He tasted incredible.  
"Mmm, John… I love it when you give in to me so easily. We're playing by my rules tonight. You are going to need a safe word… 'deduce', John. Say it if you get uncomfortable, and I will stop. I'm starting with a blindfold- I want you to use your other senses."

As he spoke, Sherlock removed the black box from the closet once more. Ropes tonight, he thought, the kind that scratch and burn the skin. A blindfold as well, to rob John of his vision. He slipped the black satin down over John's eyes and guided him back on the bed. Sherlock put John's wrists together and tied him to the headboard, a little rougher than the doctor was expecting. He hissed a little as Sherlock tugged on the material, but otherwise voiced no concerns. So far, so good.

The detective backed away, peeling his clothes off slowly and quietly. He wanted John to wait, flushed and eager, his anticipation while Sherlock mapped the encounter in his head. Start with the voice. He loves it. Tease him, Sherlock, and see how his body responds. Experiment. When he was completely bare, Sherlock moved to the edge of the bed and leaned his long torso over to John's ear.

"It's hard to get off with you when you look so vulnerable, so _innocent_. Even adorable, one might venture to suggest."

As Sherlock whispered in his ear, John flushed. "Innocent? Then debauch me, Sherlock, make me filthy."

"Oh, John, I will. I'm going to make you beg for me, make you wet, make you writhe with need…" He licked his lips, though John couldn't see. "We'll start with the riding crop."

Sherlock pulled it from the box, running his tongue over the smooth leather. He could smell the chemicals used to treat the leather, the stitches, the metal of the sewing machine that created the slip, even the breed of leather used. He was on top of his game, then.

With one quick movement he brought it down against John's chest, the slap echoing through the small bedroom. John moaned, shifting on the bed as his skin reddened. His cock twitched at the pain; he was enjoying it. Sherlock struck him again, and again, moving with frightening speed as he struck John's bare body over and over. Some of the wounds broke skin, but John did not say the word. Sherlock set down the crop and drug his cool fingers over John's abused skin, pressing a kiss to his jaw before moving to whisper once more.

"_John_," he whispered, watching his captain shudder and roll his hips. "Oh... _John_. You love my voice, you need it filling your ears... Shall I experiment? The deeper. It. Goes…" He growled, low in his chest, a sound that seemed to crowd the air around the pair. "…The more it drives you mad…"  
John strained against the ropes, his wrists red from the irritating fibers. _He wants to touch me… look at him, struggling. He really does love it when I talk. Good._

Sherlock climbed onto the bed, hovering above John's body, careful not to make contact until he was aligned properly. He caught the prone doctor in a kiss, working his jaw open with his tongue, drinking in the taste of John's mouth as one hand raked nails down his fevered chest.

"Mmm, John, I'm starting to have some fun. I'll even let you do this to me again some time. I love the idea of you on top of me, scratching up my chest until you draw blood, biting me, marking my skin…"

He accentuated his comment by latching his teeth onto John's shoulder, biting hard, sucking the sweat-slicked skin as John hissed out his name and arched his back.

"More," John whispered beneath him, "Oh god, please, more. Talk to me like that again, please, it's… it's incredible. I- god, it makes me feel like I'm going to melt."

John rolled his hips, his cock stretched toward Sherlock's stomach, his body shaking. Adrenaline normally made him still, but this… the man was vibrating with the effort it took to restrain himself. Sherlock was driving him out of his mind. The detective hummed in approval, releasing John's shoulder and slipping back down his naked skin.

"Say my name, John," he purred, dancing his fingers along the inside of John's thighs. "Say it."

"Sh… Sherlock!"


End file.
